


alpha rats nest

by spacefleeting



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Complicated Relationships, Developing Relationship, Drinking, M/M, POV Second Person, Trans Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Trans Tim Stoker (The Magnus Archives), Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, but loving them also kind of makes you hate yourself, relationship status: when the worst person you know is also unfortunately the only one who Gets It, relationship status: when you can't hate them without hating yourself
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:14:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27193636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacefleeting/pseuds/spacefleeting
Summary: "You wouldn't go so far as to call it cuddling. Cuddling would imply affection, or at the very least necessity, a desire to drive away the cold. This is neither of those things. You tear into each other's space like teeth, Jon's shoulder a knife jammed into your ribs, your arm a noose looped around his neck. There is no warmth in your intimacy."--Or: Jon and Tim sing for the damage they've done and the worse things that they'll do.
Relationships: Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Tim Stoker
Comments: 28
Kudos: 50





	1. we considered ourselves to be a powerful culture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sometimes there's nothing for it except to drunk text the guy who's definitely not your ex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fic title and part of the description from the song alpha rats nest by the mountain goats!

You could have loved him, once. That's the part that really gets you.

A million years ago in Research -- before the stalking, before the worms, before the door of the Head Archivist's office turned the thirty feet from his desk to yours into a thousand uncrossable miles-- you'd sidled up behind him and wound your arms around his shoulders, rested your chin on his head. He'd stiffened up for just a moment before recognizing the weight of you, and then he'd relaxed with a resigned sigh.

It lit you up back then, the easy way he trusted you. Made your heart absolutely sing. He was always a little bit of a dick, a little too uptight, but he did his best to soften himself for you, gave you quarter where others got none. There was a time, once, so impossibly far away, when he'd trusted you not to take too much.

"Tim," he'd said, and you'd known the annoyance was just a show.

"Jon! Fancy seeing you here."

Not a sigh this time, but a funny little snort. They used to make you laugh, all his disgruntled noises, and you had at that one. "Is there something you need?"

"Just checking in." You'd given him a little squeeze, you're pretty sure, just for the fun of it, and he hadn't even swatted your arm. "How's the case going?"

He'd clicked his tongue and clicked his pen -- not so much nervous ticks, you knew, just something to do with his body. The transformation of energy, potential to kinetic. A release. "Slow," he'd admitted. "This one really needs someone on the ground, but it's all the way in America."

"America! How'd we get that? No chance someone flew all the way to London just to give a statement?"

"Email exists, Tim."

You'd hummed thoughtfully as Jon started typing again. "You ever been?"

"Mm?"

"To America?"

"Ah, no." Jon had shrugged a little, not enough to dislodge you. "Never really travelled much. You?"

"Nah, if I'm gonna blow money on a plane ticket I'm going somewhere a lot nicer." That had gotten a little laugh, and you hadn't even tried to stop your grin at the sound. You'd glowed with it. "I read an article about it the other day though, one of those clickbait things, maybe Buzzfeed? Did you know about state quarters?"

"What?"

"State quarters. They have these little coins, quarters, they're a quarter of a dollar, part of the currency sys--"

"I know what quarters are."

"Yes yes yes, well, point is, I guess they make variants? There's the standard quarter, it's got a little drawing on both sides, but they make other ones one for each state, where one of the sides has a different drawing of something from the state."

There had been a long pause as Jon had chewed over this, and you had bitten your cheek so, so hard to keep from laughing. Eventually he'd managed a "But... _why?_ " and it had been so full of disgust that you couldn't keep the laughter in anymore.

"Dunno. People collect them, though."

"That's _stupid_."

"I don't know, I think it's funny. I kind of want them now?"

"You're ridiculous." Jon had shrugged again, harder that time, a clear message. You'd given him one last squeeze before folding yourself out of his space. "But if Bouchard approves my request for travel, I'll see what I can do."

"Aww, Jon!" You hadn't been able to resist kissing the top of his head just to see him splutter and blush before dancing out of the way of his offended swipe. "You _do_ love me!"

* * *

But that was then. Lately your days in Research have felt less like a memory and more like a story you once heard, something lovely that happened to someone else a long time ago. There's no way that was you. There's no way that was him. It can't have been.

It should make a difference, you think, now that the truth's out. It should matter that Jon didn't kill Sasha, or Leitner, or anyone. That he's not the one keeping you trapped at the Institute. That it's all Elias. It should change... _something_.

It really doesn't, though.

Martin asks if you've seen him and you sigh, shrug, tell him you'd tried. Tell him you'd said some stuff. You don't tell him that stuff had included "You know something, Jon? I think I hate you. I really, really I think I do" hissed through your teeth while you blinked back furious tears.

You don't tell Martin how Jon had actually looked miserable at that. You don't know what happened to him in the last two and a half months, don't really care, but whatever it was replaced half his armor with bandages that look like they aren't changed nearly as often as they should be. He's less sharp, now. More scared. Someone who knows him worse would think that makes him less dangerous, but you'd learned your lesson the hard way and you're not that stupid anymore.

"I know," he'd said, quietly, and for some reason you'd thought of Star Wars, Han and Leia, and it was such a fucking parody that you'd had to laugh. It was not a pretty sound. The way Jon had flinched only threw more fuel on the fire.

"Is that all you have to say? Come on, don't be shy, tell me how _you_ feel, since that's all you care about."

Jon had made a wounded noise, shifted on the spot, fidgeted with the gauze wrapped sloppily around his hand. "That's--that's not, you _know_ that's--" He'd cut himself off, and when he spoke again he had swallowed the rising irritation away. "I don't think there's anything I could say that wouldn't just make me hate you more."

You'd _burned_ at that. You didn't want him cowed. Didn't want his fake guilt. You wanted him _biting_.

"Go on, then," you'd said, voice low and crooning and sick with its fake sweetness. It was almost alarming, how easy it was to be cruel, but almost wasn't enough to stop you. "Do it. Tell me all the horrible things you think about me. Tell me something _true_ , for once in your fucking life."

"You want the truth?"

His gaze had snapped to yours, then, and the air had frozen in your lungs. You had never seen Jon look like that before. Had never been _looked at_ like that before, seen all the way down to the marrow of your bones. His eyes shot through you like a pin through a moth under glass, like the lightning siren before a storm. You had no time to take cover.

"The truth is, Tim, the most horrible thing I think about you," Jon had said, "is that I love you."

* * *

You'd left, of course. Just turned and walked right out without another word, let his office door slam behind you. What else was there to do?

You know he wasn't lying. His complete lack of talent for the art aside, you just... _know_. But that doesn't mean it's true either. You know Jon. He doesn't even know what love is.

You'd kept walking, right out of the Institute, onto the Tube, straight back to your flat. It took almost twenty minutes after you locked your front door for your heart to stop trying to break out of your ribs and your stomach to hit the bottom of its drop. You couldn't even tell yourself that it wasn't running away.

And now Martin is asking if you've seen Jon and it's the most you two have talked in weeks. You feel awful when the realization hits, and then even worse, because you're not paying attention at all. All you can think about is the horrible voice that's been whispering at the back of your mind for days, impossible to shut up no matter how hard you try, asking again and again and again _but if it is true? Then what?_

You walk away from Martin without having absorbed a single word he said and decide you hate Jon for that, too.

Because if it is true, then nothing. It doesn't change all the things he did and didn't do in the last eight months. If he loves you, he doesn't love you enough to trust you. He doesn't even love you enough to just _be there_. It shouldn't matter.

But if it does -- if it matters more than finding out he didn't have a body count, for some god-awful reason -- then no one else needs to know.

* * *

Things change, after that.

It takes you a few weeks to realize, because Jon's barely even around. He comes in at odd hours on random days and never stays for long. You think it's everyone he's not speaking to, not just you.

But then you see him hand a book to Basira, a personal recommendation for the next step on her apparent quest to read the entire Magnus library. You hear him rib Melanie, the two of them digging into each other with real heat and a mutual understanding that they won't burn higher than the first degree. You watch as he awkwardly, falteringly asks Martin if _he_ would like a cup of tea, for once.

And what does he say to you?

"Good morning, Tim."

"Good afternoon, Tim."

"Have a good night, Tim."

That's all.

You're furious.

Even at the height of his paranoia -- even when he was _actively stalking you_ \-- Jon still spoke to you. He gave you statements to follow up on, asked you to pull files, kept up the charade of being your boss. Poorly, sure, but the effort was there. Nothing he did to you was enough to shame him into inaction. But now? One tragicomedy of a confession and suddenly all he has for you are _pleasantries_.

It's insulting, and worse because you know it shouldn't be. You know that he is -- in some fucked up, extremely Jon way -- _trying_ . Trying to what, you're not entirely sure. Maybe to give all the people trapped here because of him what they need to make it through: a distraction for Basira, an outlet for Melanie, a kind word for Martin. And distance, for you, because you've made it abundantly clear that there is nothing else you could want from him. It's not enough, of course. It could never be enough, but it is -- something, and that should be better than nothing. It _should_ be. At the very least you should be able to breathe a little easier, knowing he isn't running around keeping tabs on you anymore.

But you can't. Your lungs are filled with bilgewater and bile. You spent months dreaming of the day he'd finally piss off, and now it's here and you can't stand it. It feels like there are ants crawling around under your skin every time his eyes catch yours only to dart away like he's been burned. Like they're eating you alive every time he deliberately doesn't even look your way.

You don't even know what you want, because it should just be _this_ . It's not like you can think of anything he could say that wouldn't end with you two tearing each other to pieces, but that doesn't stop you from needing -- _something_. You're desperate, and you're disgusted with yourself.

It all comes to a head on a Thursday when Melanie asks, "So what's your deal, anyway?"

You cut her a sidelong glance. You're pretty sure you like Melanie. She's an absolute menace, smart as a whip and meaner than one, and she'd made you cry in Document Storage during her second week on the job. If you'd met her anywhere else, you think you'd be great friends, so you hammer your voice into something pleasant when you ask, "The hell are you talking about?"

She rolls her eyes and waves the folder in her hand at you. The folder Jon had just handed her as they exchanged friendly fire, before he'd left the Archives for the day with barely a nod in your direction. "With _Jon_. I don't think you two have even looked at each other in, what, two weeks? Three?"

"Well, that's not exactly my doing, is it?" you say before you can stop yourself. Melanie hones in on the bitterness like a shark to blood, and regret closes cold around your chest as she grins viciously.

"Oh? Trouble in paradise, is it?"

It's your turn to roll your eyes. "Sod off." It's the only deflection you've got, and it's worthless against her.

"But there _was_ something between you two, wasn't there?"

Something in you snaps at that, and you can't quite keep the violence out of your voice as you snarl, "Only in your fucked up dreams, King."

Melanie's eyebrows shoot all the way up. There's a tense beat as you stare each other down, then she flips her hair with a snort and a look in her eyes that says she's dropping it, but only for now. "Please. You _wish_ you were good enough to be in my dreams."

* * *

It eats at you for the rest of the day, a scalpel against your ribs. She doesn't have it right, but she also doesn't really have it _wrong_ . There _had_ been something between you and Jon -- not what Melanie thinks there was, not what you had once wished there was, but something. Once upon a time, he was your best friend.

You are not often honest with yourself these days, but even you can't deny that the worst part is the exact same as it had been before Prentiss handed Jon the fuel he needed to raze your relationship to the ground for good, and it's how desperately you miss him. You used to send him so many little things without even thinking about it -- funny stories from your day, articles you thought he'd be interested in, memes that reminded you of him that you knew he'd work himself into a frenzy trying to figure out. It's so goddamn _unfair_ , you think, how he burned everything you were to him so cleanly from his heart but you're still left here in the ashes, pulling up his name on your phone before you remember why you were on fire in the first place.

Jon said he loves you. You wonder if that means he ever has to stop himself from texting you too.

You get home from the Institute and go straight for the kitchen, Melanie's words still rattling around in your skull. You shove your leftover takeout into the microwave in a pantomime of functionality before pulling a whiskey glass from the cupboard and pouring yourself two fingers.

You wouldn't go so far as to say you have a problem. You've been spending a lot more on liquor lately, sure, but you've also been spending a whole lot less on going out with friends to bars, on account of all your friendships going to hell. Just a reallocation of funds, that's all. And really, it's just a glass or two after work to take the edge off. It's not like you're getting fucked up every single night.

You very much intend to get fucked up tonight, though.

That's how you find yourself melted on the couch in front of a Great British Bake Off marathon, head buzzing like hornets as you type Jon's name in your phone, his messages too far down to scroll to now.

You are really, _really_ not drunk enough to justify this. Your thumb doesn't even fumble over the keys as you tap out a message, your vision barely blurry at all. But it's not just the whiskey you have to contend with right now. It's that, and Melanie's bullshit prying, and how wrong it feels to hear the cheery Bake Off soundtrack alone when for two years there'd been a specific someone next to you for it. You never stood a chance.

You think, _This is a really bad idea_ , and then you hit send.

**7:15 pm**

>bake off's on

**[Read at 7:15 pm]**

>and u have read receipts on. dont ignore me.

>>Bake Off doesn't air until the autumn

>it's reruns

>we missed the last season on account of u being a paranoid piece of garbage

>>Right.

>>Why are you telling me this

>come over

>>What

>i know u can read

>>Why?

>um because literally all u do is read statements ?

>>No, why are you telling me to come over

>oh i'm stupid

>b/c bake off's on

>>So?

>??? so come over

>it's bake off

>it's what we do

>>You hate me

>sure do

>are u coming?

You watch his typing bubble disappear and reappear over and over and over. You try to tell yourself it's satisfying, him being at a loss for words, but it just rubs salt in the wound that drove you to text him in first place. You take another long drag of the whiskey.

**7:21 pm**

>>Fine

>cool i'm guessing u don't need the address

>yk

>on account of the stalking

Another, much longer round of typing and deleting and hesitating. This one _is_ satisfying, but you take pity on him when it seems like he's given up trying to find a response.

**7:28 pm**

>u missed the first couple eps but if u leave now u should be able to get here in time for ep 4

>spare key's under the plant by the door (the ugly one not the nice one) im not getting up to let u in

**[Read at 7:28 pm]**

You toss your phone down and decide it's time to give up on pouring the whiskey into a glass first.

You get thirty minutes to consider all the reasons why this is the stupidest thing you've ever done before you hear the lock turn. There's a little bit of shuffling that you assume is Jon rehiding your key, then the sound of the door being quietly closed, then more shuffling as he takes off his shoes and coat. Then a long silence. You know he's running over all the same reasons you are, and you debate the chances of him just putting his shoes back on and walking out. You don't even think you'd blame him, if he did.

But if he did, he wouldn't be Jonathan Sims. Jon always follows through, even -- _especially_ \-- when it's stupid. When it'll hurt people. Hurt _him_. There's a sound of approaching footsteps, and then Jon's in your living room for the first time in a year and a half.

You look up at him and every snarky greeting you'd been rolling around under your tongue melts like candy.

Jon's been dressing more casually lately, mostly What the Ghost hoodies -- for some reason -- and the same two pairs of trousers alternated -- not that you've been _looking_. A frankly, you get it. Things like a business casual dress code suddenly don't mean anything when you couldn't even get fired if you tried. You'd seen him in his hoodie just before lunch today and hadn't even blinked, finally used to seeing him out of his hipster-professor uniform.

But there is only so much cognitive dissonance you can reasonably prepare yourself for, and apparently he had changed after work. He's drowning in a massive bubblegum cardigan and what would be acid wash skinny jeans if they weren't several sizes too large for him, riding low on his hips despite the belt valiantly trying to keep them up, and it's just too much. You almost drop your whiskey.

Jon shifts self-consciously as you stare at him with your jaw dropped. Face flushing, shoulders creeping defensively higher, arms crossed tightly over his chest. He looks like an oversized pink bird. Maybe a pissed off goose given the way he's glaring at you, daring you to make fun.

You desperately want to, but your brain is overloaded with liquor and _pink_ , and all you can manage is, "Laundry day?"

He gives a jerky nod, bunches his hands in the extra miles of sleeves. The clothes are clearly not his, and you're interested but not enough to press if he's not going to offer, so you just gesture to the open spot on your couch. Jon sits down carefully, like he expects there to be some kind of spring-loaded trap waiting under the cushion. Now that you think about it, he actually probably does, the paranoid bastard.

When nothing happens he relaxes ever so slightly, tucking his knees up under his chin and pressing as close to the arm of the couch -- as far from you -- as possible, all curled up and defensive. You tell yourself the burn in your throat is just from the cheap liquor and turn up the volume on the TV. This is going to be excruciating.

Except -- it's not. Apparently, watching Bake Off together is the one thing you haven't forgotten how to do. Jon doesn't speak to you and you don't speak to him, which is new, and your laughter is tight, but it still comes from both of you at all the right places, all the little jokes made by the bakers and hosts. You don't speak to Jon but you do speak to the screen, negging mistakes you don't have the skills to even begin to make, and when he snorts in agreement it's _something_.

At one point you catch him staring at you. To his credit, as much as he has any, he doesn't scramble to look away when you raise a challenging eyebrow at him, just holds your gaze calmly. The look on his face could be decipherable if you tried, you think, but you really don't want to. You hold the bottle of whiskey out to him instead.

Jon frowns skeptically at the label, but he still untangles one arm from himself to take it, careful not to touch you as he does. The other arm remains firmly crossed over his chest, and you realize with a jolt he must not be wearing his binder. You used to nag him all the time about safe binding practices, gave him tips for dressing to minimize his chest when he needed a break, sent him your surgeon's number on the off chance that he'd ever take enough time off work to recover. None of it ever worked, of course. You'd joked once that he'd sleep in it if he could, back when you still joked with him, and his laugh had been three beats too late for comfort.

And yet, here he is. Right here, right now, on your couch, when you hate him, when he'd never let you see him without his binder on when you still liked each other. Because it's laundry day. Because you asked him to be.

Jesus fucking Christ.

He coughs as he hands the bottle back to you, and you make sure your next pull is long enough to cut off any attempt to consider the implications.

And so it goes. You and Jon pass the whiskey back and forth until the bottle's empty. At some point your hands start brushing in the exchange. You react to the television to avoid reacting to each other. The alcohol unwinds something in Jon. He stops hunkering against the armrest, starts unspooling across the open space between you, although he doesn't uncross his arms. You drift in, untethered.

Somewhere around the quarterfinals you end up crowded together in the center of the couch. You wouldn't go so far as to call it cuddling. Cuddling would imply affection, or at the very least necessity, a desire to drive away the cold. This is neither of those things. You tear into each other's space like teeth, Jon's shoulder a knife jammed into your ribs, your arm a noose looped around his neck. There is no warmth in your intimacy.

You really should push him off. Instead you hold him tighter.

The credits of the last episode have barely started to roll when Jon pulls away, leaving you cold all down your side. You watch him clamber unsteadily to his feet and think you should offer him -- something. A hand. Your couch for the night. Even just a glass of water.

You don't. It only makes you feel a little bit like a monster.

He gets his feet under him eventually, and when he turns to you it's only a little off axis. His eyebrows are knit together, teeth sunk into his bottom lip like they always do when he's about to say something he shouldn't. You perk up, waiting to see what bullshit the whiskey's going to loosen from his throat, sick with yourself over how excited you are at the prospect of a fight. But then he opens his mouth, and all he does is sigh.

"Goodnight, Tim," he says, and then he wobbles right out the door. Only when you hear it slam shut behind him do you realize that's the only thing he's said to you all night.

God. _Damn._ It.

* * *

"Have any of you seen Jon lately?"

You look up at Martin from the case you weren't reading. He's hovering by the door of Jon's office, gripping a mug of tea so hard you're worried it might shatter. You are struck, very suddenly, by how _good_ Martin is, how loving, and your heart aches so hard for him that for a moment you think you might be sick. Jon doesn't deserve him. None of you do.

"Nope," says Basira, sounding only vaguely interested, and Melanie hums in agreement.

Martin's frown deepens. "Tim?"

You think about the last time you saw Jon - a bony shoulder shoved into your side, knobbly knees in your lap, the smell of cheap whiskey. The morning after your hangover had hit you with all the fury of an avenging angel and the particular kind of regret you usually associate with a bad hookup. You'd skipped work without bothering to call out.

But that had been a week ago, and you'd rather die than tell any of your coworkers about it. You shake your head. "Nope."

"Anyone _heard_ from him at least?" Martin tries, voice going high at the end with anxiety.

You shake your head again, and _that_ gets Basira's attention. Now it's her turn to frown. "He usually go off for this long without telling anyone?"

"He doesn't tell anyone anything," you say at the same time Martin says, "No, not really." You give each other looks.

"He's probably just off chasing some lead," Melanie says distractedly. She's squinting very hard at her screen. When you'd asked earlier she'd waved you away, insisting it was independent research. "I wouldn't worry."

"Lead on what?" Martin asks.

"Dunno. He'll be fine, though. Wasn't he last time?"

"No, he wasn't! Last time he came back with his hand burnt to a crisp!"

"He only came back at all because I got there in time to stop Daisy," Basira adds. She looks -- not worried, yet, but something approaching it. You very deliberately ignore the way her expression resonates with the feeling in your chest. "You try texting him?"

"He hasn't replied," Martin sighs. "Not that that's -- _unusual_ , for him, I guess? But he's been in and out enough recently that I just thought...I don't know. Tim, I was thinking maybe you could try?"

You choke on your sip of coffee. Melanie's desk is right next to yours, and instead of leaning over to hit your back as you splutter, she kicks your shin unhelpfully. You slap some files off her desk in retaliation as you force out a strangled " _Me?_ "

Martin flushes, half embarrassed and half indignant. "Well, yes. I know you two haven't exactly been on the best of terms lately --" two identical snorts from you and Melanie and an eye-roll from Basira "-- _but_ ," he continues louder, "maybe getting a text from you would, I don't know, shock him into replying?"

"You're joking," you say, even as you realize he's probably right. Wasn't that exactly what happened last week?

"I'm really not. It can't hurt."

"Yeah, Stoker," Melanie goads from the floor where she's picking up papers, "go on, text your ex." You push another stack of files over, directly onto her head, and she has the audacity to laugh at you.

The damage is done, though. Basira raises her eyebrows in poorly-concealed delight and Martin's eyes go wide as the moon. "Your--your _what_?"

"My _nothing_ ," you say with enough force to make it clear that you are not, under any circumstances whatsoever, entertaining this conversation. "She's full of shit."

Basira's still got a look that says she's going to be interrogating Melanie for her version of events later, but Martin, God bless him, takes the hint, even though you suspect he'll be right behind Basira. "Oooookay! Well. Just, give it a try? Please."

You sigh. You hate it when Martin says please. No man should wield that amount of power. "Look. I'll think about it, okay?"

* * *

You think about it for all of five minutes. It's a stupid idea, you decide, and you're not going to do it. Martin will survive the disappointment. He's worrying for no reason, you're sure. Jon is fine.

Fifteen minutes after that you pull out your phone.

* * *

**10:27 am**

>hey shithead

>martin says he can't get through to you and for some reason he thinks i should try

>so

>remember how you're still somehow our boss despite your endless list of hr infractions, complete lack of qualifications, and general unpleasantness to exist in the same room as?

>come do your fucking job

>no one's seen you in days

**4:55 pm**

>are u like

>avoiding ME?

>b/c if so: oh my fucking god

>if i had known all it'd take for u to fuck off was one painful bake off marathon i would have forced u into one MONTHS ago

**11:35 am**

>beep boop pick up your goddamn phone!!!

>legal disclaimer i don't give a fuck if you're alive and neither do the new girls i'm p sure

>but martin is worried and if you don't breathe soon he's gonna chew straight through his lip with worry

>i know it's ur default state but don't be a dick to him :/

**9:30 am**

>melanie says your mutual friend you've been crashing with says you didn't tell her anything before disappearing either

>you're such a piece of shit jon

>when are you going realize that your actions have consequences outside yourself

**5:17 pm**

>elias says you're """working""" and everything is """fine"""

>and i don't trust him for shit but you're his precious baby archivist arent you

>he's not gonna get anything hurt YOU, who cares who else gets hit along the way

>so from now on i'm assuming he's right and you ARE fine and you're just being a bastard and letting us fuss over you for nothing

>letting *THEM

>slip of the thumb i still dont care if you're dead

>anyway: cool! fuck you

**7:58 am**

>wait are these even being delivered

>THEYRE NOT

>WTF

>TURN YOUR PHONE ON???????

**10:46 pm**

>no but fr can u text martin back at least :/

**2:14 am**

>legal disclaimer no. 2 i AM drinking again and this IS the whiskey talking but

>really really really hope youre not dead

>ugh i hate myself look at this this is just a wall of texts from me

>it's so embarrassing GOD i hope u never get these

>but b/c ur phone is lost or smth else boring not b/c of anything bad

>just!!! dont be dead ok

**[Read at 4:38 am]**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOOOOO okay i got possessed by this concept last weekend and now i have 13.5k written lol. aiming for semi-regular updates (maybe once every two weeks?) but i'm a fulltime student so no promises
> 
> couple of things!! first i'm not really sure now to tag for this kind of relationship lmao so i might add tags as it goes, also if there's something you think should be tagged lmk! also, let me know if this format of showing their texts with the > and >> is readable, this isn't a chatfic but there will be a fair amount of texting until they figure out how to speak to each other (and they are very stupid, so, know this) SO if this isn't working i can figure out something else.
> 
> lastly thank you for reading!! kudos and comments make my day so i'd love love love to know what you think :^)


	2. this place is not a place of honor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hey man, what did you mean when you said your skincare routine was trauma?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if i only decided to title the chapters after already posting chapter 1 no i didn't <3 all chapter titles are from the sandia report on long-term nuclear waste warnings (full report [here](https://prod-ng.sandia.gov/techlib-noauth/access-control.cgi/1992/921382.pdf) if u want, wiki page with the parts i'm pulling [here](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Long-time_nuclear_waste_warning_messages)) because. well. jontim.
> 
> chapter warnings: standard jontim shit communication, a couple descriptions of jon losing a worrying amount of weight post-kidnapping

**7:45 am**

>"read at 4:38 am" now wait a goddamn minute

>>Hi

>oh my god

>where the FUCK have you been

>it's been a MONTH

>>Its what

>>Goddammit

>what happened????

>>Ill tell you later

>fuck you tell me now

>>See you at work

>jon you bastard answer me

**[Read at 8:05 am]**

>i cannot fucking stand you

* * *

You debate going into the Institute today for a long time. You'd been planning to, even planning to stay the whole day -- something that's getting rarer and rarer recently -- but Jon's presumption is, quite frankly, pissing you off. _'See you at work.'_ Who does he think he is? You're not going to come running just because he's back. You're not his dog, for Christ's sake.

Halfway through your second mug of coffee it hits you that he wouldn't know you've been skipping work. It's a new habit, one you've been rolling out slowly over the past week or two to see how much you can get away with before Elias starts giving you shit. But Jon's been gone. He doesn't know. He's not presuming anything, not intentionally. He's just...going off what he knows.

The realization makes your coffee go thick and sour in your mouth. It's instinct at this point to assume the worst about him. He's done everything he can to prove you're right to, and every other time you've been wrong the information has come from someone else. This is the first time you've admitted it on your own.

You think that it should probably give you some relief to be wrong. To have proof there's still some of your Jon in this one. It doesn't. It's worse, to be reminded that there was a time when he was yours at all.

Part of you wants to skip work just to prove a point. You want him to know he doesn't have you anymore just as clearly as you know you don't have him. But.

_'I'll tell you later.'_

You're not as bad as he is, but you've never been one to say no to an answer. And that's all it is: an answer to a question, checking one mystery off your endless list. It's not personal. And there's no point denying that you want to know.

You pour the rest of your coffee down the drain and go to put your trousers on.

* * *

You know Jon's back in the building by the slope of Martin's shoulders. You tell yourself the relief you're feeling is for _him_ because he won't be giving himself any more neck cramps from the constant tension. It has absolutely nothing to do with the massive fraying coat -- the only one you've ever seen Jon wear -- clinging to the hook by the door of the Head Archivist's office, standing open for the first time in weeks. 

You glance in as you head to your desk. Empty.

"He's not in there." You jump and spin around, heart in your throat. It's Melanie, far too close for comfort, and you stumble over yourself stepping back from her.

"Jesus Christ, King." Your face is heating up with the mortification of being caught, which only makes you annoyed, because caught doing _what_ ? You were just looking. Anyone would, if their boss reappeared after a month. It doesn't _mean_ anything.

Melanie just raises an eyebrow, looking equal parts smug and disgusted. You decide then that you don't quite care for her at all. "He's not in there," she repeats. "None of us have seen him yet."

"And you think I care because...?"

The eyebrow goes higher. "Oh, I don't know, maybe because you've been mooning about ever since he went MIA."

"I--what? _What?_ " You are acutely aware that Basira and Martin are staring. It makes your face burn harder and Jesus, since when are you so easily flustered? You refuse to look at their expressions, but Melanie looks like she's having the time of her life. You want to die. "Shut the fuck up, I haven't been _mooning_."

"Mhm. _Sure_ , Stoker, whatever you say."

"Well, I _say_ that you're a--wait." Everything else -- your mortification, the blood in your face, thoughts of Jon -- drains away as your world narrows to the object in her hand. "Is...Melanie, is that a knife?"

The change in her is instant. She doesn't even try to hide it, even unfolds it so you can see it better. It's a hunting knife. A big one, black all over except for a sharp line of silver at the very edge of the blade. It glints meanly when she holds it up to the light.

"It is," Melanie confirms, smooth and solemn.

You look back at her face and find that it's all coiled viper: patient expectation, fast-acting venom. You know she wants you to ask. Maybe even wants you to try and stop her from doing whatever it is she's going to do. She wants an excuse to _show_ you.

You've never seen her look like that before, or maybe you have and you just didn't notice. Or maybe you did, and you just didn't care.

You look at Martin and Basira over the top of Melanie's head. Basira is still holding her book up, but she's drilling holes into the back of Melanie's skull, muscles tense all over. Martin's shoulders are all the way up again. He can't seem to pick a place to look, eyes bouncing back and forth between you and her and the knife like he's trying to figure out which one is the most dangerous. Neither of them move an inch.

Melanie doesn't move either. She just stands there holding her knife, smiling faintly, watching for your reaction and hoping it's the wrong one.

Maybe you _would_ ask, if you were friends, but the only friend you have in here is Martin and even that thread feels a little closer to breaking every day. You're not about to risk anything just because a girl you barely know is finally starting to lose it.

You are, you decide, far too sober for any of this.

"That's nice," you tell her, and the spell over all of you breaks. "Have fun with that. I'm going to get brunch."

"It's half past nine," Martin squeaks, because apparently _that_ is the thing that needs commenting on here. 

It's so very Martin that whatever's left of your heart can't help but warm a little, and when you throw him a grin and a wink they almost feel sincere. "Brunch is a state of mind, Marto."

And then you turn and walk right back out the door. It's not like you were going to do any work today anyway.

You don't even remember about Jon until your second mimosa is in your hand, and by then it's too late to even consider going back in. You have an image to uphold. And more importantly, you've got brunch to be having.

* * *

In the end you don't see Jon for another three days. Part of you wants to go in to work every morning at nine and stay until five and lie to yourself about why, but even you couldn't orchestrate that level of mental gymnastics, so instead you force yourself to drift in and out like you have been. You keep missing him though, your schedules apparently exact opposites. You know he's there, but only through what he leaves behind -- a new book on Basira's desk, a stack of files moved out of place, dried tea in the bottom of his beloved ugly cat mug in the break room sink. Signs of life with no proof of a pulse.

It's a strange feeling. You used to think the Archives were haunted because it was the only name you had for what could be happening here, but you know better now. This, though -- this is a haunting. You never thought it would be so mundane.

Everyone else has seen him. No one else tells you anything, but really, what else is new? You're always the last one to find out anything these days, if you ever find out at all. It usually sets the fire inside you blazing, but this time you're unsure -- maybe it's better that they don't tell you, if you don't know. You think about the weeks of undelivered texts, the confusion over how long it's been, the apostrophes missing from his replies. Whatever happened, you are certain it was awful, and the certainty doesn't give you the satisfaction you thought it would even though you know that if anyone deserves to suffer, it's him. What he doesn't deserve is your pity, but you can't stop worrying that you'll give it to him anyway.

He doesn't text you. You don't text him. Better or not, you want to know -- horribly, overwhelmingly, desperately, and for once you think you could maybe understand the beginning of him, the curiosity that compels him forward in all its crushing violence. But you are not Jon. You _want_ but you do not _need_ , and you are not going to beg. You still have some dignity left.

On the fourth day Martin brushes his knuckles across your shoulders as he passes your desk. Hesitantly, like he's afraid you might bite. You can't even begrudge him his caution. You know you've been awful. You just wish you knew how to stop.

"Hey," you say, and you're unreasonably proud when it comes out soft.

"He's in the break room," Martin says with no preamble, and suddenly your stomach is in your shoes. "I know you haven't seen him yet. I--I don't know if that was on purpose? But he's here. If...if you were looking."

"I wasn't." The denial comes on reflex, but it comes strangled and sad, almost unrecognizable as you. The look Martin gives you is unbearable in its understanding. It eats at you like rot, the fact that he understands when you don't, and suddenly you don't trust yourself at all.

"Okay." His words are so careful, so unthreatening as he turns back to his own work. "Just wanted to let you know."

You breathe in slow. Breathe out. You're fine. "Yeah." Clench your fist, unclench. You are not on fire. "Sure."

You do not run to the break room, but you do go. Perhaps you don't have as much dignity as you thought.

Jon, by some miracle or curse, is still there. He's leaning back against the counter like it's the only thing keeping him on his feet, eyes closed, all collapsed in on himself like a condemned building, and he's not even drinking his tea, just clutching his horrible cat mug to his chest for warmth. The only sign he notices you throwing open the door is a tiny flinch as it hits the wall with a _BANG_.

There were so many things you were going to say, you're pretty sure, but now that he's here in front of you you can't remember a single one. All you can do is watch as he very, very slowly, lifts his head to stare back at you. Your breath catches in your throat at the sight of his face.

What you try to say is "Hey." What you actually say is "Did you get a skincare routine?"

Jon laughs at that, a startled, bright sound that cuts right between your ribs. When was the last time you heard him laugh? When was the last time you _made_ him laugh? Another life, a different you, a thousand years ago.

It's all the spark you needed to go up like a flare.

Jon scrubs the heel of one of his hands across his eyes and gives you a tired smile. "Hello to you too."

"Hi, but no, for real, what the fuck."

The smile dies on his face in an instant. "I'm sorry?"

You should let it go. You absolutely, one hundred percent, should let it go. You didn't come here looking for a fight. It doesn't even _matter_ \-- who cares if he finally learned how to moisturize? And yet: "Here I thought, must be something really terrible happened to Jon. Even _he_ wouldn't disappear like that on us for no reason, right? But no. Here you are, aren't you? Fresh back from the spa and looking better than ever."

That is not at all true. He looks like shit, and that's the real issue here, isn't it? Jon has always been skinny, but never before has it scared you. You've seen him wear this hoodie two or three times before and yeah, okay, maybe you _have_ been looking, because you could have sworn it used to cinch in at his hips. Now it hangs off him, the waistband loose and shapeless around the tops of his thighs. Those pants don't fit anymore either, and his eyes are so sunken and bruised that when you first saw him you'd thought for a moment that he'd been punched. He looks frail, barely held together, like it wouldn't take more than a gentle breeze to scatter all the pieces of him. It terrifies you.

The Jon you met in Research was small, yes, but he was also solid and unshakeable. Trying to reconcile that memory with the shade slumped against the sink in front of you tears at something in your heart you long since thought had died and are furious to discover hasn't.

The look on his face is miserable. Eyes wide under pinched brows, mouth hanging just the tiniest bit open. Like he somehow can't believe it. Like he's shocked by your audacity, your callousness. And you are too, a bit: you sought him out, and it was not with the intention of drawing blood, but, well, it's not like the bleeding between you two ever really stops. Might as well just bite down harder. Surrender hasn't been an option for a long time.

"Tim," Jon says, so terribly quiet and sad, and you realize with a dangerous, gut-wrenching jolt that he has no defenses right now. All the masks he puts on every morning are dust on the floor. This is not Jon the Researcher, or Jon the Head Archivist, or even Jon the Paranoid Piece of Shit Stalker Boss. This is just Jon, and this is awful. "Come on."

It rips at your seams, and the pain does nothing to gentle you. The opposite, really -- you know yourself well enough to know that you couldn't put the fire out now even if you wanted to. There's nothing left to do except let it burn itself out, but something has to feed it in the meantime, and it's sure as hell not going to be you. You've hurt enough for him.

Your voice is all steel and hot coals when you say, "Oh, what, am I wrong? Silly me, Jon! Really, my bad. If only someone had told me what happened, maybe I would know better."

Now, _now_ Jon's eyes narrow. His lips go thin, his jaw squares up. A sick wave of satisfaction rolls through you at the sight. _Good_. It's always better when he burns with you.

"It's not like you've exactly been here, have you," he says, no question in it.

"Sure I have. But even if that was true, you have my number. Could've texted. Could've even called."

"And you would've picked up?" _That_ makes you shut your mouth with an audible click of teeth, and Jon straightens up a little to press the advantage. "That's what I thought. I am _not_ trying to hide anything from you. I said I'd tell you and I will. I just wanted to tell you in person, because I think you deserve that, but I couldn't ever find you."

 _'Because I think you deserve that.'_ How dare he? Maybe once he cared about what you deserve, but it hasn't been for a long, long time. You didn't deserve to be stalked. You didn't deserve to be treated like a criminal after you got eaten by worms with him. You didn't deserve to be set adrift like a ship without mooring when he pushed you into the Archives and out of his life.

But you don't say any of that. You still have enough awareness to know there's a good chance it would just make him start apologizing again, and that wouldn't get you anywhere. You know he's sorry. Hearing the first time didn't make you feel better. Hearing it again won't either.

So instead you say, "Well, here I am. So tell me. Who gave you their routine? Elias takes pretty good care of his face in between spying on all of us. Was it him? Special fourteen-step plan for evil stalker bosses?"

Jon's mug is shaking with how tight his grip has gotten, the knuckles on both his hands a stark white. The burned one is unbandaged now. The new skin is still red and shiny, rivers and whirlpools of scar tissue that twist into what is unmistakably the imprint of a hand. You remember, suddenly, distantly, something Danny once told you: he worked in a restaurant kitchen in university, and handling all the hot dishes made him lose feeling in his fingertips. He said it was unsettling, being able to reach out and know he was touching something but have no sensory input to match. Part of you wonders if that could have happened to Jon but with his entire hand.

You watch as a tiny wave of still-steaming tea slops over the rim onto his fingers, burned and unburned alike. He doesn't even flinch. Maybe he just doesn't feel anything at all.

Jon's hands keep trembling but his voice is steady when he says, "It was Nikola, actually."

"Am I supposed to know who that is?"

A snort. "You'll know her last name. Orsinov."

The world stops spinning. You are not in the break room anymore.

You are in your old flat, the one before last. It's five, maybe closer to six in the morning on a Thursday. Danny is in your armchair, crying. Everything is far too quiet, too still. This is the last time you will ever see your brother alive, but you don't know that yet.

You are in the old Theatre Royal at Covent Garden. It is so easy to get inside. No one stops you, even though it's the middle of the day. Someone should have seen you and no one did. You see, though. You see the thing that is not Danny and the thing that is and is not Joseph Grimaldi. You see the clown whip the skin off of the shape of your brother, and you see lights and kinematics and a dance that is not a dance but is. And you listen, too. You hear music in the shape of the lights and for a second, for a century, for an impossible time that is no time at all, you are unknown.

You are outside the Royal Opera House. _Tosca_ is on, you can see the posters for it, and the summer evening air is heavy in your lungs. You are holding a Russian flyer with a clown's face on it, and then you are holding nothing at all. There are tears drying on your face and more welling up in your eyes. The crowd parts around you like the Red Sea. No one wants their night ruined by a crying stranger.

You are in the library of the Magnus Institute. It's your very first time there, your very first day on the job. You'd been asked out to lunch by two of your new coworkers, a laughing woman who calls herself Sasha and a not-quite-frowning man who she calls Jon. They're beautiful, the both of them, and you ache to say yes but you haven't yet forgotten why you're there, so you tell them maybe another time. The librarian doesn't even blink when you ask for every book she has on circuses. She sends a shy, gentle man named Martin to take you to the right section. You thank him, and then you pull every book you can reach off the shelves. Martin brings you a step-stool, and you thank him again. You cannot reasonably start reading anything in the forty-five minutes you have left for lunch, so you flip through the books instead, try to get a sense of where to begin. In one you find a black and white photograph of a Russian circus that stops your heart in your chest. You cannot read Cyrllic, but you could never forget the shapes of the letters on the flyer. The caption names the ringmaster: Gregor Orsinov.

You are sitting at your desk in the Archives. Martin has been living there for a few weeks now. There are worms on the sidewalk every morning as you come in and every evening as you leave, and you step on every single one. You are all sleeping less and trying not to show it. Jon emerges from his office looking thin and pale. You want to ask him if he's been eating, if he'd take one night off burning the midnight oil to let you cook him dinner, if he'll let you hug him just to remind yourself that he's still there. You do not ask him any of these things. It's been a long time already since you felt like you could. But you do smile at him. He leans his hip against your desk before remembering himself as your boss and straightening back up, and that hurts, a little, but then he smiles back, more genuine and warm and unguarded than he has in weeks, and that balances it out. You ask him what you can do for him. He hands you a statement about a calliope organ and asks what you know about circuses.

You are aware, dimly, that Jon is looking at you. Eyes narrowed, head cocked. The look he gets when he's found a puzzle he can't quite place the pieces of. At least, you think it's Jon, and you think he gets that look. You think, too, that maybe you hate being looked at like that, but it's hard to be sure. Hard to know. You don't feel like you hate it right now, but then again, you don't really feel anything at all except vertigo. You are so far away from him and from here and from everywhere and there is no touchstone, no reference by which you can measure anything else except the fall. The tile beneath your feet does nothing to hold you.

"Tim?" someone asks. It sounds like it's coming from underwater, and it takes you a minute to process it, but. But _yes,_ that is Jon's voice. That is Jon asking you something. You know Jon. You'd know Jon anywhere. And Tim? That's you, that's your name. You know your name. You have that. You have Jon. That's enough.

You take a long, shuddering breath, and the world snaps back into motion.

You are in the basement break room of the Magnus Institute. It smells like a nauseating mix of lemon cleaner and microwave popcorn. There's old tile beneath your feet that no one has ever thought to clean, and a wobbly three-legged table in the middle of the room that no one has ever thought to replace, and the drip, drip, dripping of the leaking sink that no one has ever thought to fix.

And there's Jon. Jon, who is standing straight up now, no longer relying on the counter to keep him on his feet. Jon, who is still holding that stupid cat mug that he loves so dearly and sincerely even though you bought it for him as a joke. Jon, whose face is painted in clear worry and clearer hesitation.

Jon, who was apparently taught to moisturize by a fucking Orsinov.

"What the fuck," you manage around the bile rising in your throat. Speaking makes you feel like you're on the verge of choking, but it's either that or wait for Jon to figure out how to ask if you're okay, and you genuinely just could not deal with that right now. You take another moment to breathe, trying to keep the fire burning low. You cannot afford to blow up at him again. Not right now. Not when this is the first lead you've had in a year. "You...you were with the Circus?"

You don't voice the accusation, not directly, but Jon hears it anyway and bristles. The worry disappears from his expression, and that's better. "Not by _choice_. I was kidnapped."

 _Oh._ Oh no. The abrupt disappearance, the month of undelivered texts, the weight loss -- it all clicks into place in one horrible lurch. The man was _kidnapped_ , and he wanted to tell you about it, and instead you came in here and started shouting at him over his skincare.

The fire goes out in an instant. You realize with sudden clarity that you are the biggest asshole in the world.

You deflate like a pricked balloon and say, "Um. Well. Shit."

Jon gives another dainty little snort. "It was."

You want to apologize, but it's _Jon_ , and the urge is both disquieting and impossible -- you just don't know how to apologize to him anymore. There is absolutely no way to salvage this, so you just press on with questions before you can be choked out by an awkward silence. "Who is _Nikola_ Orsinov? The ringmaster's name is Gregor."

"Gregor was...she called him her father, but, ah, creator may be a better word. He made her. And then she killed him. She's the ringmaster now".

"What does that mean, _'made her'_? What is she?"

"Plastic, mostly, with some... _pieces_ she's taken from others. A voice box, at least. Probably other parts too, but nothing visible. All of that's inside." Jon grimaces. "I'm pretty sure she once spent a week pretending to be a department store mannequin, if that gives you any idea of what she looks like."

You stare at him. "...Why would she do that."

"I don't _know_ , I didn't exactly have a chance to ask while I was gagged. I assume it was for a laugh."

You wince. Gagged. Jesus Christ. Sure, you'd daydreamed about shutting Jon up more than once, but God. They had him for a _month_. "That. Okay, yeah, that's fair." You want to ask if he's okay, but that's something else you don't know how to do. "Why did she kidnap you? And, uh, moisturize you?"

Jon closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. For a moment you worry that was it, you've finally stepped too far and he's going to tell you to fuck off, but then he opens his eyes and meets yours and when he speaks the words are heavy with forced quiet and calm. "She wanted my skin."

_No._

_No, no, no, no nononononoNO._

You didn't hear that right. You can't have heard that right. You are begging every god you know the name of that you didn't hear that right. You say, "Sorry, what?"

Another long sigh. Jon sways on his feet a little. "My skin." He reaches back to steady himself on the counter as he tears your world to pieces. "She said she needed it in better condition before she peeled me. That's why she bought me lotion and spent a month drowning me in it." The words get higher and more manic the further he goes on, hints of hysterical laughter creeping in at the edges, and you don't have to ask to know he is not okay at all. "She wanted to wear me. She wanted my _skin_ , Tim."

For the second time in ten minutes, time stops moving. You don't.

Four years ago in Covent Garden you didn't move at all. Not because you couldn't, but because you were too afraid. You had felt every shake of your knees, every goosebump that had risen on your arms. Now you move like someone else is molding your limbs into action and you can't feel yourself at all. The next moments come to you in snapshot bursts, stop motion animation with half the frames missing.

You are by the door. Jon's eyes are wild and wavering.

You are halfway across the room. Jon has refocused on you. He looks like he's bracing for a hit.

You are in front of him. You are toe-to-toe. Jon is confused, maybe a little scared. He is asking again, "Tim?"

You cup his face between your palms.

The thing that was not Danny had stood in the middle of the stage all small and hunched over. Like a collapsing building, like a breeze could have broken it to pieces. Like Jon had stood against the counter. You had wanted to run to it, to grab it and shake it and convince yourself it was him. But when Grimaldi had pulled off its skin there had been nothing but light and music and motion, and you knew that if you had put your hands on it they would have gone right through, and you would have been consumed by the dance.

Your hands do not go through Jon. They meet his jaw and they stay there. Jon used to have round cheeks that he once told you he kind of hated for still being too feminine despite years of hormones. That softness is gone now. His face is gaunt and you feel hard bone under your fingers and palms, but it _is_ bone, you are sure, not plastic. His skin is warm and getting warmer. You are close enough to smell the stale tea on each breath he takes, and you release one of your own that you didn't even know you were holding.

Jon is alive. He is not plastic, he is not a dance. He is flesh and blood and bone and he is here, he is alive, and you have him. _You have him._

The relief crashes over you like a tidal wave. You'll hate yourself for it later, but for now you let yourself drown in it. Your eyes close and your head drops forward until you're not quite resting your forehead against his, but almost.

"But she didn't get it," you whisper into the negative space between you, hoping he'll hear everything you can't quite remember how to say. "She didn't get _you._ "

There is a long stretch of silence as you breathe each other in. Then comes a soft _clink_ of ceramic on stone as Jon sets his mug down behind him. A scarred hand presses against the back of yours. Long fingers brush softly over your knuckles, and you think your message was received.

And then Jon digs his nails into the delicate juncture of your thumb. You jerk your head back, eyes flying open to stare at him in shock.

You have seen Jon angry before. You've seen him shout and rage and curse. You've been on the receiving end of his anger more than once the past year, and you've come to know its contours, its rhythms, all its varied but patterned forms.

You have never, ever seen him angry like this.

He is shaking all over with the force of it. His mouth is twisted to bare his gritted teeth, his eyes are bright and wide and burning. You think of a cornered animal about to lunge for the jugular. You think of a radioactive meltdown. You think of the earthquakes before a volcanic eruption. You think of every dangerous thing, and you know none of them could even come close to him right now. They're all barely even matches, and Jon is a wildfire. Anything you were thinking of saying evaporates in the face of him.

Message absolutely not received, it seems.

He presses his nails in further until you hiss in pain, and then he stops and holds them where they are, four bright stars of pain. And then he speaks.

"You are entitled to your anger, Tim," he says in a voice that's as cold and sharp and dark as the blade of Melanie's knife. "You are even entitled to your hatred. But you are _not_ entitled to my humiliation."

There is a wild, spinning moment where you have no idea what he means. Then it hits you: where you are, what you're doing. You pressed yourself into Jon's space with no invitation. You're holding his face like you would a lover's. A moment ago, you'd spoken the gentlest words you'd had for him in months with your lips just inches from his. You'd been close enough to kiss him. Maybe you'd even wanted to.

Jon loves you. You know that to be true, now, in this instant, in the furnace of his anger. And you hate him, except when you don't, but he only knows the first part of that. And here you are, doing this to him anyway.

You really are the biggest asshole in the world.

You let your hands fall from his face in silence. Jon doesn't even wait for you to step back -- the second you break contact he's shoving past you hard enough that you stumble. You let him, and you let him go, and you don't turn to watch him leave.

For months you've felt yourself hollowing out, all your insides crumbling away to ash and cinder until all you had left to keep you standing was your anger. It hurt, and it scared you, but you didn't know how to stop it -- you didn't think you _could_ stop it -- so you let it happen. You got used to the hurting, and then the hurting stopped, and you thought it was done. You were finally empty.

Jon slams the break room door behind him as hard as he can. The sound cracks you down the middle, and all the soft insides you thought had burned away spill out across the mildewed tile. You stand in the gore trying to remember how to breathe against the tight band of agony crushing your lungs. You cradle those four tiny red crescents to your chest, and you don't think you've ever felt so alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tim's reaction to martin mentioning the circus in mag 104 always had me [eyes emoji] because it meant no one ever told him who kidnapped jon...rip to this tim but he gets to know and suffer!
> 
> i can't believe i actually met my once every 2 weeks goal for this one dfngjkfdg. next chapter will probably take a little longer because it's one i haven't written much of yet and i've got a lot of school stuff in the next few weeks.
> 
> thank you so much for reading!!! i hope you enjoyed the chapter, as always comments really make my day so i'd love to hear what you thought!! <3


	3. no highly esteemed deed is commemorated here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> adagio (adj): performed in slow tempo. a term usually applied to music. in this case, to a breakdown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter warnings: brief mentions of past self harm

You put your hands on the counter and your head against the cabinets and you count to ten. And then you count to ten again. And again. And again. You stand there and count until your hand stops bleeding, and it's only then that you realize Jon broke skin.

For some reason that makes you feel better. On the next count of ten you manage to get all your breaths out without choking. On the one after that the tear tracks on your face start to go tacky.

Jon's not coming back for his tea. You have no doubt that he's stormed out of the Institute entirely by now, and you can't even find it in yourself to blame him. You pick up his mug with the intent of washing it out for him -- it's the tiniest apology imaginable, but the only one you can think of right now -- but you freeze as soon as it's in your hands. It's still warm.

In a moment of weakness you clutch the mug to your chest like a lifeline, like Jon had, and you have to take a second to blink back a fresh wave of tears. You don't even know why you're crying, except that, _god_ , it smells like him. Jon's favored this blend for as long as you've known each other and the scent of it -- rich and warm and heavily spiced -- permeates every memory you have of him. It's not the kind of thing you'd ever drink, even if Jon didn't brew his tea so long and so dark no one else could stand it. You prefer lighter blends, greens and herbals.

You take a long, slow sip anyway. The warmth of the spices is undercut by a sharp, unpleasant bitterness that sits heavy on your tongue. Frankly, it tastes awful. You roll it around in your mouth until the tannins make your gums go dry and then you swallow, forcing it around the lump in your throat. And then you take another sip. And another. Again and again until the tea's all gone and your mouth feels like sandpaper, and only then do you wash the mug out.

You remember the day you gave it to him. It was a present for his promotion, sort of. You'd had mixed feelings about the whole affair, most of them not very kind. Worry for Jon, who'd looked like he was on the verge of throwing up when he'd broken the news. Annoyance at being yanked from Research, undercut by gratefulness that you weren't being left behind, undercut by yet more annoyance at being grateful. And most of all anger for Sasha, who was so much more qualified for the job than Jon had ever been but who took the snub with so much more grace than you could ever manage.

You'd felt the gap starting to emerge between yourself and Jon even then, in those first two weeks in the Archives, but at the time you hadn't wanted to do much about it. It was so easy to forget about the worry and focus on the indignation and the petty bitterness when Sasha and Martin were right there next to you and Jon was locked away in his office. You knew it wasn't his fault, not really -- from what you'd listened to of his initial explanation it didn't sound like he had been offered the job so much as ordered into it -- but you hadn't really cared. If Jon didn't have enough of a backbone to stand up for Sasha then he could at least apologize for it, or at _least_ have enough guts to pretend to your faces that he hadn't let you down. But if he wanted to hide from his mess, that wasn't your issue.

You know you'd only gotten him the mug because Sasha bullied you into it. You can't remember her face or her voice or the clothes she liked to wear, but you still have her texts. At least, you're pretty sure they're hers -- the Not-Them changes digital pictures, you know, but you couldn't find any evidence of it changing digital writing, and you just don't have the strength to even consider any other possibility. You've spent countless nights scrolling through her messages, comparing them against the way the imposter in your memory spoke and branding each one that passes the test into your heart.

She told you she'd talked with Jon. She wasn't mad at him anymore, she said, and he'd been so sorry, seemed so overwhelmed. She told you he needed you, both of you. She told you to stop being a dick.

You hadn't wanted to. It felt _good_ , having an excuse to not keep up your smiling facade all the time, to be _mean_ , even if that excuse was one of your best friends. Former best friends? Back then you hadn't been sure which one Jon was yet, but you _had_ been sure that you couldn't handle fighting with Sasha at the same time, so you'd forced yourself down to the nearest charity shop to resentfully poke around for a gift.

The mug had caught your eye right away, on account of it being huge and absolutely hideous. The handle was poorly molded to look like the fluffy tail of a cat, complete with sharp clay tufts of fur that dug uncomfortably into your hand when you held it. The rest of the cat was painted stretching around the mug in blocky shapes and bright colors that reminded you of a cubist painting, if the painter hadn't ever learned color theory or what cubism was.

It was perfect, which meant it was extremely backhanded. Close enough to Jon's interests that you'd have plausible deniability when you claimed you'd thought he'd like it, but garish enough that you'd both know you knew he wouldn't. You bought it immediately and wrapped it carefully in tissue paper, focusing on the relief of getting Sasha off your back to ignore the excitement of having an excuse to talk to Jon that wasn't paperwork.

The next day you'd let yourself into Jon's office with a flourish, and he hadn't even looked up until you shoved the tissue-wrapped monstrosity in his face with a fake-cheerful, "For you, boss, for the big promotion! Better late than never, yeah?"

Jon lifted his head from his hands, then, and all your irritation fizzled out in an instant. He'd clearly been dozing off, his eyes bleary and red, and oh, god, when had the bruises under his eyes gotten so dark? He didn't even look embarrassed at being caught, just confused and sad and _tired_ , and all the worry you'd been so carefully ignoring came flooding back so dark and fast and heavy that for a second you felt like you were drowning.

"Oh," Jon said, voice thick, hands shaking as he took the little package from you. "Oh...thank you, Tim. You didn't have to."

You shrugged, mumbled something about it being what people do, but you'd been distracted cataloguing every detail of his appearance -- glasses smudged, sweater rumbled, knuckles raw and caked with bits of dried blood where he'd been scratching at them. That stopped you dead. _He hasn't scratched in a year_ , you thought as the pit in your stomach sunk deeper and deeper. He'd only had the job for two and a half weeks. What _happened?_

You looked around wildly while Jon was focused on carefully peeling back the tissue paper without ripping it, searching for -- something. A cause, a trigger, a reason. All you found were stacks upon stacks of files, higher than the last time you'd been in here, when they'd already been higher than the time before that. You felt sick. How had you missed it?

But of course you knew: you hadn't even been looking.

You turned back to Jon, then, expecting him to be making a face and instead finding him smiling as he traced the lines of the horrible parody of a cat with his fingers. It was such a small smile, but so genuine, and his eyes and voice were so full of gratitude when he looked up to thank you again that your heart shattered on impact.

"Of course," you said, smaller than you'd meant to. "Do you like it?"

Jon nodded, bit his lip as he smiled again and cupped it in both his hands. "I do. You know I love cats. And this is...well, it's very you."

It was such a _Jon_ thing to say, so caught up in his sincerity that he didn't even realize it might sound like an insult. You were immediately crushed by equal weights of fondness and guilt.

"I'm glad," you said, feeling horrible, and then you took a breath to steel yourself before asking, "Jon?"

"Mm?" It was just the tiniest sound, half-distracted, but its sweetness made you ache.

"Are you...okay?"

The change was instant. The warm sleepiness fled from his face, chased off by widening eyes and defensive anxiety. His hands went tight on the mug and his shoulders drew up tighter, a bowstring ready to snap.

"I'm fine." He said it so fast he'd forgotten to inject it with irritation and left the lies of it bare. "Why."

You frowned, shifted unhappily. "It's just...you don't, I mean, you look tired? And all these files--" you gestured around vaguely with a humorless little laugh "--I mean, it's like they're breeding, isn't it? And. And we're here to help, Jon. Me and Sasha and Martin. It's not fair if we're just mucking about out there while you're drowning."

"I'm not drowning," Jon snapped, and the desk between you felt like miles. "I've got it under control. I can--I can _do_ this."

You raised your hands placatingly. "I'm not saying you can't, just--"

"You have been." He said it so quietly, but you froze like he'd shouted. He kept his eyes down, tapped his nails hard on the ceramic. Each little _ping_ went through you like a knife.

You swallowed. "Jon--"

"I _know_ it should have been Sasha, alright?" The resignation in his voice was a terrible thing to hear. You'd never known him to resign himself to anything before. He'd always be a fighter. "I know, you know, everyone in this bloody Institute knows. I didn't--I _don't_ want this. But--" here he took a shuddering breath that rattled you down to your bones "--I can do it. I _can_. I just need to work harder."

That made you want to cry for him, but you kept yourself in check. "You already work so hard," you said, small and chagrined, feeling all the worse when he shook his head. "No, you do. I...look, Jon, I know I've been a shit friend. I'm sorry, I really am. But I do know you can do this. You just. You just don't have to do it alone, okay?"

Jon said nothing for a moment, just kept tapping his nails on the mug, and you knew he was trying very hard to keep from digging them into his own skin instead. You were about to start rambling again when he said, so quietly you could barely hear it, "That's why I asked you to come. To the Archives. I didn't want to be alone."

It hadn't fixed anything, not really. You'd stopped being angry with him for a time, sure, and he'd come out of his office more -- talked to the team, delegated a little more work, even came for drinks if you and Sasha whined enough -- but the damage had been done. You chatted over files and ribbed each other over team drinks, and he left you on read until you stopped trying for anything else. You just hadn't been able to figure out how to close the distance, and then there was Prentiss and the worms and the stalking, and then you hadn't wanted to.

But you didn't know any of that yet, so when Jon told you he didn't want to be alone you didn't even think before you went around his desk and climbed into his lap. He more than let you -- he reached for you the second you took his new mug to set aside, drew you down. You held him while he clung to you and trembled, and when you felt the collar of your shirt dampen you didn't say anything, just hummed and pet his hair and whispered promises you really thought you were going to keep. When it was over he let you wipe his face with the cuff of your sleeve, and then he caught your hand in his and pressed a clumsy kiss to your knuckles, like you used to do to him to make him smile. He told you he was sorry. You told him everything was going to be okay.

Here, now, under the cold fluorescence of the break room lights where absolutely nothing is okay, you dry the mug and tuck it back into its spot in the cabinet with the same care you'd used to hold him then. It's not the same. It's not even close. Summers in the basement of the Magnus Institute are brutal and boiling but you're cold all over, too cold to even remember your anger. The place where it should be feels like a wound frozen shut, raw and infected and festering, and you just miss him so fucking much.

* * *

You're still not feeling quite right by the time you walk into the cafe the next morning. Afternoon? It's hard to tell but you don't think it can be too late yet, not with the number of patrons still sat at the tables. Point is, it took a while to get back to even this level of functionality. You'd spent the night numbly curled under a blanket on your couch with old seasons of Bake Off running on mute until you finally fell asleep. When you'd woken up you'd felt -- not better, exactly, and certainly not _good_ , but...less shellshocked, maybe. More alive. Enough to be annoyed at the fuzzy feeling in your mouth from not brushing your teeth, at any rate, and that was something.

You'd clung to that annoyance. Used it to propel yourself up and off the couch, over to the sink and your toothbrush, and then into the shower, and then into new clothes. You had to keep moving. Still have to. Even waiting in line is hard, and you keep shifting from foot to foot in a pantomime of forward momentum. You're so tired, and moving is so hard, and it would be so easy to stop, but you _can't._ Not if you don't want the numbness to swallow you again.

The whole thing feels hazy and far away when you think about it, which you don't want to. You don't want to know, or care, or understand what or why. If you could have it your way you would just forget about the whole day. You wouldn't even hold it against Jon, you don't think -- just wipe it all clean from your mind, reset yourself twenty four hours and try again.

But you never get what you want these days. You can't _stop_ thinking about it, not when Jon's clothes looked so huge on him and his face felt so gaunt between your hands. It's not his fault, you _know_ it's not his fault, and you don't want to but you hate him for it a little bit anyway. He doesn't deserve your worry.

And yet, and yet, and yet.

_What are you even doing here?_

You didn't sleep well. You can feel the beginnings of a migraine licking at the base of your skull, and you know it's going to be a bad one -- it's always a bad one when it starts like this, with numb hands and bright flashes of lightning in the corners of your eyes. You remember you used to think the exposed Edison bulbs of the cafe were cool, industrial hipster chic. Now the glowing filaments make the space behind your left eye throb, and you just think they're obnoxious.

You were never really a regular here -- the organic pastries are far too expensive for your meager Institute salary -- but you were here enough that you don't need to look at the menu. You used to come for lunch with Jon and Sasha once a month back in Research, a little payday treat, and you'd all always gotten the same things. A Monte Cristo and strawberry crepe for you, a mushroom panini and a chocolate eclair for Jon, and for Sasha--

And you stop yourself there, force yourself to take a long, deep breath. You don't know what Sasha ordered. You want to drown in that, you really do, but you're not here for her.

It smells good in here, at least. Strong coffee and fresh bread. Every breath wakes you up a little more, brings you further back to your own body, and this is both a good and a bad thing. By the time you make it to the front of the line you've thawed out enough that the full stupidity of what you're about to do is starting to dawn on you, but not enough that you don't still step forward when the cashier calls you up.

You ask for a mushroom panini and a chocolate eclair to go. You think about ordering something for yourself too -- surely you deserve it -- but then your stomach twists, the nausea hard and sudden and overwhelming, and you choke down bile to ask for a bottle of water instead. The cashier doesn't notice or at least doesn't care, if the number she writes on your receipt is any indication.

It throws you for a second, although not because it's unwelcome. You’re flattered, for sure, and she's beautiful. It's just that you forgot people did this -- flirt with strangers just because they're beautiful. You forgot _you_ did this, even though it wasn't that long ago, was it? A year ago you would have called. A year ago you may have even offered your number first.

The normalcy of it is absurd -- and a little tragic for being absurd -- but it also makes you warm in a way you haven't felt in ages, so you manage a grin for her when she hands you your bag a few minutes later. You're still not going to call, of course, but you doubt she really expects you to. It's not about that, you know. It's just about trying.

It's only a ten minute walk to the Institute from here. You make it fifteen. The water tastes horrible. It's that offensively overpriced mineral enhanced shit, and you only make it a few sips in before your stomach turns violently and you have to throw it out. You stop in the middle of the sidewalk to breathe.

Five seconds in. Five seconds out. Lights burst across your field of vision, sharp lines and twisting fractals. Whatever brief clarity you’d achieved in the cafe has gone up like smoke. Were you really yourself back there? Even just for a minute? Even at all? It feels like this is all you’ve ever been. Your muscles are too loose and too tight all at once. You want to cry. You want to lie down in the street and never get back up.

You don't. You make it to the Institute, somehow. From there it’s easy to stumble down to the Archives. Melanie says something to you, but you don't really hear it, and honestly you don’t care. You make a rude gesture in what you think is vaguely her direction and let yourself into Jon’s office without even bothering to knock.

He’s hunched over with his face buried in his hands again, and the déjà vu hits you like vertigo. But there’s no flourish this time, no passive aggressive gift. You don’t strut over to his desk. You drop back hard against the closed office door with the food bag rolled up in your hand and just look at him while you wait for the room to stop spinning.

Jon’s wearing that monstrous pink cardigan again. It looks even bigger on him this time. You’ve never seen someone make such a cheerful color look so miserable. Before today you wouldn’t have thought it possible.

You know he’s not dozing off this time, though -- the line of his shoulders is too tight. When it becomes clear he’s planning to ignore you until you go away, you call out, “Jon.”

He doesn’t look up, but he does somehow tense up even more. You roll your eyes. “Jon. Come on.”

Jon sighs, long and frustrated, before finally lifting his head. His glasses are pushed up into his hair, and there are red indents around his eyes from how hard he was shoving his cardigan-covered fists into them. It's a little too on the nose, really, but it's not your fault that the way he’s glaring at you reminds you of an angry cat.

He’s kind of beautiful like this, all wreathed in fury and aura lightning. Your heart flutters, and you don’t even try to blame it on the migraine.

“What,” Jon spits.

You lift the bag. “Heads up.”

Jon _screams_ when you throw it at him, so loud and sudden and startling that for a second you scream right back. He fumbles the bag but somehow doesn’t drop it, ends with it clutched to his chest. You sway on your feet, heart pounding from adrenaline now rather than anything else, head ringing with the noise. Your vision blurs and distends and swirls.

There’s a loud, rapid banging on the door that feels like several knives to your skull. Basira calls, “Everything alright?” but she doesn’t try to come in.

“We’re _fine_ ,” Jon snarls, voice high and breathy and panicked. He blinks rapidly as he comes back to himself, and then his face contorts in a way you’ve recently come to intimately know as guilt. He clears his throat and says again, apologetic, “Ah...s-sorry, Basira. We’re alright. Just startled, is all.”

There’s a pause, and then Basira says, “...Sure. Let me know.” She doesn’t sound convinced at all but thankfully she doesn’t press it, and a second later you hear her footsteps retreating.

Jon rockets to his feet and rounds on you, eyes bright and burning again, still clutching the bag to his chest. “What the _hell,_ Tim. What is this?”

You wince at his volume. “It’s lunch.” 

“...Lunch.” He looks a little thrown, but the anger hasn’t fully dropped.

“Or...or breakfast?” You hate how confused you sound, how lost. “Whatever is closer. I don’t -- know what time it is, I guess.”

Jon’s mouth is hanging open, just a little. You’re not sure if his brow furrows or if that’s just another twist in your vision. For a long minute he just stares at you. You do your best to look back through the aura, but it's getting hard.

“I.. _wh-what?_ ” Jon splutters, and you’re unreasonably relieved that you’re not the only one who’s floundering.

You shrug. "I mean, it's food either way."

But Jon is shaking his head before you even have the words out, and you feel your already tenuous mooring slip even further. “No, that's not...I-I-I mean, you said you don't...are you..." He flaps a hand in a motion you recognize as distress. For a horrible, heart-stopping second you think he's going to ask if you're okay, but he finally just settles on, " _Why?_ ”

You break -- not eye contact, because you’re not sure you’d been meeting his eyes in the first place, but you do look away from his face. You fix your gaze on his left shoulder instead. You don't know if there's any compulsion behind his question. Melanie says the compulsion feels like a buzz down the back of your spine, but you're not sure how you'd feel it when you've been buzzing out of your skin since you walked in the door.

But you think there must not be, because truth doesn't immediately start pouring out of you. There are no hooks drawing out your words. When you open your mouth, all you do is take a deep breath and say, haltingly, “Yesterday. In the break room. I wasn’t trying to humiliate you.”

It's not an apology, but it is. The long silence that follows rips into you with teeth and claw, and when it bites through your ribs to your heart you add in a voice barely above a whisper, "I really was -- a-am, glad you're okay. _Am_. I am glad."

The admission hurts more than the pounding in your skull, more than the first time you realized Jon wasn't your friend anymore, more than him telling you he loves you. You feel sick in a way that has absolutely nothing to do with the migraine. You know you've hated yourself more but you can't remember when.

You force yourself to look at his face again, but you have to look away immediately. His expression is doing something that makes your chest go tight and your stomach roll -- it's all soft around the edges, all melted eyes and desperation. It's terrible, all the more so because it actually isn't terrible at all.

When Jon says, "Tim," so gentle and hopeful and scared, it's the worst sound you've ever heard.

"Don't," you say, harsh and ragged. You draw yourself up, push off the door that's been taking more and more of your weight, ignore the way the room spins. "This doesn't change anything, alright? It doesn't mean--" you catch sight of Jon's face shattering again in the corner of your eye and make a frustrated noise "--Christ, Jon, I said _don't_. Just. Look. Just eat it, alright? You need to eat something. You really do look like shit."

And then you throw yourself out of the office before you can crack and apologize for that, too.

Moving that fast was a horrible idea, though. You stumble a little as you slam the door behind yourself. It's bad now. The migraine. It's really, really bad, and the sudden panic isn't doing anything to help. You can barely feel your hands, let alone see them in front of you. Every breath is harder than the last.

Basira's there, suddenly. Or maybe not, but it feels sudden to you. She's talking, asking you something. Are you okay? No, no, and what a stupid question, and she knows that. Anyone would know just from looking at you. That's not how she means it, though.

"Migraine," you say, or something close to it.

The shape that's Basira wavers like a nod, says something that could be "Right." She doesn't fuss like Martin would, doesn't make fun like Melanie. She just grabs you tight around the upper arm and drags you off behind her. You kind of love her for that, just for a minute. You've always been a fan of efficiency.

Oh, she's taking you to the back room. The one with the cot, where Martin lived for months. You've napped in here before. Who hasn't? Everyone has. It's nice. Cool, quiet. The cot isn't too uncomfortable, either. Someone always keeps the sheets clean.

Basira guides you through the door and only then does she let you shake her off. It's not that you're ungrateful -- you even manage something that sounds like a "Thank you" -- it's just that you _know_ Melanie would never let you forget it if you'd needed help to lie down. Another wave of pain drops you to the cot harder than you'd planned, and your head barely hits the pillow before everything goes dark.

* * *

You wake up like the tide coming in, awareness ebbing and flowing as you're slowly pushed back to the shore of your body. It takes a long time. Again and again you feel yourself hovering just on the edge of consciousness before you're dragged back into the cool, soothing darkness.

The first thing you notice when you finally wake up for good is the dusty taste in your mouth. The second thing you notice is the greasy pull of your skin as you wrinkle your nose. _Ugh_ . You hate falling asleep for too long with your teeth unbrushed and your face unwashed, but this is the second time in less than a day you've done it. This time you wake up all sweaty, too, which is its own brand of awful. You desperately want to change your clothes -- you're _gross_.

But otherwise you're...okay, mostly. You're in no rush to get up, so you let yourself lie there with your eyes closed for several long minutes and just take stock of your body. Your head still hurts, a little, but in a way that feels like dehydration rather than a migraine. Your throat is scratchy and dry, your lips are cracked. That's fixable. Your muscles ache, but you can feel every single one of your limbs, all the way down to the cautious curling and uncurling of your fingers and toes. Good. That's good.

You don't feel good. You feel like shit, honestly, but at least you're feeling. At least you're you.

You shift onto your back, stretching a little, rolling your stiff neck and shoulders, and only then do you register the warm, soft weight covering your upper body. You frown. You definitely didn't manage to get yourself under the blankets before you passed out, and even if you had, wouldn't your legs be tucked in too?

The sheets are cheap polyester and the blankets are fleece. You flex your fingers again and they catch on yarn.

 _Huh_.

Slowly, slowly, you open your eyes. Your lashes stick together and you think you must have been crying at some point, but your eyes are dry now. The room is blessedly dark. There are no exterior windows down here, and someone turned off the light directly outside the room. The little bit filtering in through the door's tiny window is soft and distant, but it's enough that you can see the items that were laid out next to you while you were asleep: two bottles of water. A chocolate bar. A packet of plain crackers. A bottle of painkillers.

You don't even need to wonder who it was. The bubblegum pink cardigan draped over your torso is answer enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wheeeeew this chapter did not do the things i wanted it to, but sometimes you accidentally turn a mug that should have been a throwaway detail into a two thousand word flashback whose tense kicks your ass and then you have a migraine so you also give tim one just for fun.
> 
> but.....ANYWAY.....i hope you enjoyed it! as always i would love to hear what you thought <3 i've really been overwhelmed by the kind comments you all have left so far, i genuinely didn't think anyone would read this fic! thank you for supporting my weird little jontim exploration, i appreciate it more than i can say :')
> 
> next chapter will also be delayed since i have finals over the next two weeks - i'm thinking about 3-4 weeks again until the next update, but hopefully after that i'll be able to get back on schedule!


	4. nothing valued is here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> dude, we've been over this. katy perry's 2008 hit "hot n cold" is not a lifestyle manual.

**4:17 pm**

>fuck you very much for the water and snacks and meds

>>That's a weird way to spell "thank."

>literally do not talk to me

* * *

You know it's stupid to be mad at Jon for this. You know it was objectively very kind of him -- before today no one else even knew you got migraines, let alone how to help you recover from them, but Jon helped you through countless back in Research. You know it wasn't an act of pity, that it was maybe even a sign he accepted your apology. You know you should be glad, or at the very least neutral about that. You definitely shouldn't be burning the bridge you yourself just tried to build.

You don't care. You're pissed anyway.

Because you've got your head on straight now. For the first time in a day and a half there's no panic attack or migraine muddling your thoughts, and that means there's no escaping the fact that Jon still knows how to care for you better than anyone. And that _stings_. It was so much easier when you could tell yourself he doesn't care, that whatever love he has for you is purely selfish. You don't know what to do with the evidence that he does and that it's not.

Better to just not do anything with it at all, then. Box it up in your mind and put it somewhere you can't reach, hidden behind anger and fire and hurt. Push him further away after all you did to pull him that little bit closer. You're self-aware enough that it makes you feel a little like a child throwing a tantrum, but that doesn't mean you're not going to do it.

But you still drink the water. You start by shotgunning one of the bottles, a skill you haven't had much use for since your university days but somehow still haven't lost. You drink the other one at a more reasonable pace, sipping it in between small bites of the food. You're careful to alternate chocolate and crackers so your senses don't get too overwhelmed by either flavor. Your stomach riots a bit at first, but you take it slow, and soon enough your body gets the memo that yes, actually, you're absolutely famished, and no, really, food is not the enemy. When you're finished you use the last few sips of water to take the exact dose recommended on the bottle of painkillers, even though you want to take more. It's the most responsible you've been in ages, and you feel stupidly proud of yourself for managing even this much.

You lay in the dark for a little while longer until you're certain you'll be able to stand, and then you quietly gather up your things and let yourself out of the back room. Martin's already gone for the day, it seems, and Melanie and Basira look like they're about to head out as well. Basira raises her eyebrows at you in question and you nod, shoot her a thumbs up. You'll thank her properly later -- you don't quite feel up to talking yet.

There's still light pouring out from under Jon's office door. You skirt its edges carefully. You throw the empty water bottles in the recycling and the wrappers in the trash, feeling all the while like you're destroying the evidence of a crime.

But you keep the cardigan. If whoever Jon borrowed it from wants it back they can ask for it and he can ask you, but you just don't have the energy to talk to him again right now. Melanie can waggle her eyebrows about it all she wants -- it's just easier to wear it than carry it around under your arm. The fact that it's soft and warm is just a bonus, really. It has nothing to do with the way it smells like cigarette smoke and spiced tea. Nothing at all.

* * *

You're standing in the National Gallery when Martin calls.

"Hey," you say. "One sec."

"Alright," Martin hums. He doesn't sound upset -- not yet, at least -- which fills you with relief. He almost always sounds a little upset these days, and you know you're the cause of it more than is fair.

You weave your way quickly out of the gallery rooms, murmuring a quick apology to other patrons as you squeeze past them in narrow doorways. Once you're safely locked in a bathroom stall you say, "Sorry about that. I'm at the museum."

"Oh? That sounds nice."

"Mhmm." It is nice. You've always liked the National Gallery, but it's been a few years since you've been. You used to take Danny here whenever he visited London. The two of you would spend an entire afternoon wandering the halls -- sometimes seriously contemplating the art, sometimes debating which paintings you would steal if you were suddenly dropped into a heist movie -- hoping the weekend rush would be enough to muffle your laughter. It never was, and you'd been chased out of more than one room by an old woman's annoyed glares, laughing all the harder for it.

That's what kept you away, more than anything: you didn't want to be followed room to room by the ghost of Danny's laughter. But there was only so long you could stare at the walls of your flat, and you certainly weren't going in to work, so you came here. It's quieter than you're used to -- you've never been here in the middle of the workday before, and it's only you and a couple retirees, some tired-looking tourists and a summer camp field trip. The only thing that follows you are your own footsteps. It's relieving, in a way, but it also feels a little like grief.

"Anyway," you say. "What's up?"

"Oh! You know, just checking in." Martin's voice is high and fake-sugary, the way it always gets when he's trying to act casual. He's never been a good actor, though.

You roll your eyes but keep your tone level and polite when you say. "Come on, Marto."

A beat, and when he speaks again it's strained and fast, like he's afraid you're going to cut him off. "I mean--it's--you--you haven't been in in a few days, and you didn't call in, or--or answer my texts, and after what happened with Jon--" he cuts himself off with a frustrated noise, and then there's a long sigh before he finishes, "I was just worried, is all."

Guilt twists hard in your chest. You forgot that Martin texted. You'd meant to respond -- really, actually had -- but it was just one of those things with you. If you didn't reply as soon as a text came in you just never would, either out of compounding guilt over your lateness or just sheer forgetfulness. You're usually better at staying on top of it, but, well. You haven't really been on top of anything lately.

"I'm sorry I made you worry," you tell him, "but you really don't have to. I just needed some time away from everything."

You can practically hear Martin pursing his lips on the other end of the line. "Alright. I'm glad you're alright." You manage to reign in a snort at that. None of you are alright, but if Martin wants to keep pretending otherwise then that's his problem. "Just--just let me know next time you need space, alright?"

You curl your free hand into a fist, press your nails into your palm, breathe deep and count to five. "I don't need a babysitter."

"I'm not trying to _babysit_ you, I just want to make sure you're not kidnapped too."

"Oh _please,_ no one's going to kidnap me. I'm not the special little Archivist, am I?"

There's a long pause that turns your stomach like spoiled milk, and then Martin says, clipped and angry, "That's not fair, Tim. You know it's not."

You bite your lip hard. "I know," you manage around the knot of twisting indignation and chagrin in your throat. "I know."

A little gentler, he says, "He's worried about you." Its carefully smoothed edges feel like sandpaper on your skin.

"Yeah." You don't say you're worried about him too. There's no way you can say it -- not to Martin, not when your entire body crawls with shame every time you think about it. He would never understand. Martin worries so easily, never even considers that some people don't deserve it, but more importantly he never knew Jon. Not really, not like you did. He saw Jon's prickly armor and fell in love with his fantasy of a bleeding heart too tender to survive without protection. He always refused to see the truth: that Jon has love in him, yes, more than he acts like he does, but that he is also selfish and impulsive, and that his cruelty is not entirely an act. He has claws that he uses without even thinking about it, and _that_ is what makes knowing him so painful, let alone loving him. And you should know -- you'd known Jon, and you'd loved him so much, and you'd been so close to _loving_ him, too. And look where that got you. Look where it still has you. All the concern you had for him should be burnt away, after everything he's done. It's the least you deserve.

But you worry anyway. You worry so much that it makes you sick. It eats at you like rot at wet wood, infection at an unbound wound. Sometimes, at your lowest moments, you think you don't care at all, and then you sink even lower, and you think you'd do anything to be sure he's okay. How could you ever say it?

So all you say is, "Yeah," and it comes out like a wasteland, flat and empty and cold.

Martin sighs, clicks his tongue. His patience tastes like poison. "He wants to fix things. He's trying."

"Yeah, well. It's not enough."

"Do you even know what would be, or are you just going to leave him fumbling around in the dark trying to figure it out?"

The worst part is, it's not said cruelly. It's not even said with Martin's special brand of forced politeness, all the ruder for how fake it is. You could have handled it, if it was. But he asks it genuinely, with nothing but curiosity in his voice, and for some reason that's unbearable.

You take another one of your counted breaths, and then another, and another, each one going up with a tiny prayer that this time it'll actually _do something_. Calm. You're calm. You're calm and you're fine. It doesn't hurt. How can it, when your entire body already aches like a bruise?

You don't know what to say. You don't even know where to start. _Do_ you know what would be enough? Would anything? Could he fix it, if you gave him a way to? Wrote down step by step instructions like the kind that come with Ikea furniture, except instead of how to build a chair they tell him how to reassemble a friendship? Could it be that easy? Martin certainly thinks so. Martin thinks a lot of things are that easy. He thinks you make them difficult just because you can. And maybe he's right, maybe you do. But you don't think you are, this time. You've looked, and you can't see a way out of this that doesn't end in blood.

And the thing is, you're not even sure you want one anymore. You just want to see the man who used to be your best friend without fire racing through your veins and knife going through your heart. You want to not feel like you're drowning every second you're alive. You want to wake up in the morning and not wish you hadn't.

Martin's still waiting, but you have nothing to say. You have a thousand things to say. None of them are for him.

The seconds drag by into minutes. Eventually he sighs again. "I didn't call to fight."

You can't stop yourself from saying, "Kind of did, though, yeah?"

"Tim."

"Not saying it's on you. Just saying we don't have to pretend it was going to go any other way."

"Christ, you never know when to leave it, do you?"

" _Ouch._ " You scuff your heel on the bathroom floor, feeling all the world like you're back in primary school, getting scolded by your teacher for picking fights on the playground. There's something strangely delightful about it too, though. It's about time Martin started standing up for himself again. You haven't seen that fire since he was screaming at you in the tunnels, the day Leitner was killed. "Claws are out today, huh?"

"Oh my god, just take the olive branch, you prick," Martin snaps, and you want to laugh, genuinely impressed, but you don't. He would take that as you patronizing him, which he hates more than anything, and as much as he's digging under your skin right now you don't actually want to lose him for good. Danny's gone, and Sasha's gone, and your thing with Jon is...your thing with Jon. You're not sure you'd survive losing anyone else right now.

"Alright, alright." You chew your lip again and then offer a small, "Sorry," more because you know you should than because you actually mean it.

"It's--fine." You both know it's not, but you also know that tone in Martin's voice -- if you keep pressing now you'll only make it worse. For once you just let it go.

There's a minute where you two just breathe together. It's not peaceful, and your tongue is heavy with all the things left unsaid. Half a year ago you would have tried to find something else to talk about, something to smooth over the tension on the line. Now all you say is, "I'm. I'm gonna go, Marto. I'll stop by work on Monday, yeah?"

"...Okay. Okay. I'll see you then, I guess?"

"Mmm."

"Just."

"Yeah?"

Another pause, and then he says, all in a rush, "Just don't disappear, Tim."

* * *

You've never been afraid of the dark. When you and Danny were kids your parents would pack you up and ship you off to your grandparents in northern Scotland every summer. Nights were short there, but so dark and clear that you could trace the arc of the Milky Way across the sky. More often than not you'd sneak out alone once the rest of the house had gone to bed and spend hours wandering around the empty moors, nothing but the stars and the moon and your grandmother's old border collie to guide you back. You're old enough now to realize how stupid and dangerous it had been, but at the time you'd never once been afraid. The darkness laying across those windy moors hid no teeth, no monsters. You always came home safe, long before the sun rose.

Maybe you should be afraid of the dark now, after everything you've read and seen, but you just...aren't. You have no fear left to spend on something that has always been a friend to you. Besides, it never gets truly dark in London. Even the most shadowed alleys glow with light pollution if you squint hard enough, but you don't wander through those tonight -- you don't need to be afraid of the dark to not want to get mugged. You stick to the main streets, where the streetlamps paint everything in warm shades of orange and yellow. Car headlights bounce and glitter off the wet pavement. It must have rained at some point today. You're not sure when. You didn't notice.

_Don't disappear, Tim._

But it's not so bad, disappearing. Earlier in the evening you'd sat at the bar of your favorite pub, where the bartender knows you well enough to judge your mood and your inclination for conversation by your order alone. When you'd asked for a whiskey neat she'd slid your glass across the counter with a sympathetic nod and only looked back your way when you asked for your check. But first you drank slowly, letting the alcohol and noise roll over you and through you until your thoughts finally started to quiet down. And then you'd paid, gotten up, and gone for a walk.

London is never quiet either, especially not in your neighborhood at this time on a Friday night. There's car horns blaring, tires squealing, music spilling onto the street from the clubs. And shouting, always someone shouting. It swirls around your head, drowning everything else out, even the fire, even yourself. You walk and walk and walk until your legs ache and your hands stop trembling and the fire feels like nothing more than hot coals. You walk until you're nothing at all.

You don't turn the light on when you finally come home. Why bother? There's enough light coming in from the street below that you can see the outlines of your furniture clearly enough, and that's really all you need. You make your way to the bathroom easily enough. You strip and wash your face and brush your teeth by touch.

In the bedroom you feel your way over to the desk, where you paw through the pile of clean laundry for fresh pajamas. You'd meant to put it away earlier. You'd also meant to put it away yesterday, and the day before, and on Tuesday, when you'd actually done it. Laundry was hard, though. Even before your life went to hell you rarely managed to put it away before it was time to do the next load.

You find a soft t-shirt and a pair of gym shorts, and then you touch something thick and knitted and chunky. You pause for just a second before pulling the cardigan off the pile too. It doesn't smell like Jon anymore after being through the wash, but it's still soft and cozy. The weight of it around your shoulders makes you think of whiskey far worse than what you'd had tonight and Jon tucked into your side, and maybe it's just the dark and pleasant emptiness talking, but none of that seems quite so terrible in retrospect.

It's a little too warm to sleep under the blankets, let alone with a cardigan on too, so you throw open your window and kick back the covers and sprawl out on top of the sheets. The sounds of car horns and music and shouting drift in from far away, and for a while you just drift on them. Eventually you roll onto your side and scroll mindlessly through your phone until you somehow end up with Jon's texts pulled up. You stare at your last conversation, feeling equal and opposite tugs of distant regret and satisfaction.

And then you take another breath of night air, and you remember something.

Late one evening last summer, in the last few days before the Prentiss attack, you and Jon had left the Institute at the same time. You didn't talk on your way out, but the silence hadn't been strained, either. You remember you were so tired, and he was too. You remember stepping into the humid evening air and Jon elbowing in front of you to stomp on the waiting worms with far more aggression than was strictly necessary. You remember you'd been charmed by that. He'd turned to you when he was done, looking a little embarrassed at the display, and the sunset lit his profile up like a painting.

You didn't even pause to think before you'd said, "Come home with me."

And Jon had said, "Okay."

And he came home with you.

It'd been months since Jon had been over, but he still kicked off his shoes and hung up his bag and followed you through your flat without hesitation. You'd ordered takeaway with Martin before you left work, so you didn't need to fuss about dinner. You just headed straight for the bedroom, handed him a clean t-shirt and some shorts from the laundry pile on your desk. He'd brushed his teeth with a dab of toothpaste on his finger and you'd made him copy every step of your skincare routine, except the toner, which he'd wrinkled his nose at the smell and texture of.

It'd been hot that night too, and far too early to go to sleep. You'd flopped into bed anyway. Jon took a moment to open the window before following, and he curled right up into your space as soon as you held an arm out. He'd put his head on your chest, wrapping his bony arms around you. You didn't even scold him for not taking off his binder. Instead you'd pulled up some shark documentary on your phone and hummed along to the background music and listened as Jon cheerfully corrected the narrator on every other fact.

You'd known even as you'd run your hand up and down his side that it wouldn't last -- the morning after would be stilted and awkward, and you'd feel the gap between you more keenly than ever. But you hadn't cared. Right then, just for that moment, you'd come crashing back together like you'd never been apart, and you remember that it felt _so good_ to have your best friend back. You remember wishing you could have kept him forever.

And then a few days later you'd lost him for good.

You blink once, twice. Your phone slowly comes back into focus. When had you teared up? You sniff a little, wipe at your face, and your fingers come away wet. You laugh -- kind of, it sounds more like choking -- and bunch your hand in the sleeve of the cardigan before trying again.

Jon's name shines out accusingly, temptingly from the screen. You think about it, and then you close the app and toss your phone across the bed, rolling over to face the window. You squeeze your eyes shut and listen, try to bring yourself back to that empty, still place. Car horns, music, shouting.

_Don't disappear._

Monday. You'll see him on Monday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feeling extremely Eh about this chapter and it's bit of a shorter than usual but finals really ate me alive so i'm just trying to get back into the swing of things. i promise there will be more plot (and more jon <3) in the next one! buuuuut i'm also deciding to permanently nix any hard chapter deadlines and instead vaguely aim for one every three weeks - we're getting Into It now so i will stress less with a more relaxed schedule. sorry about that, but i hope the wait will be worth it! and as always, thank you for reading xx
> 
> ps officially calling this at 12 chapters because i keep chopping things in half and frankly. i am sick of myself dfjkgflg. if you see that chapter count go up egg my house.


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